Despite All
by Sterenyk Strey
Summary: 'Rozial had to wonder what iniquity he had committed. None whatsoever, most likely. She prided herself in being a good judge of character.' Response to comment fic prompt on sghahcchallenges. Shep whump. Oh, yeah... XD


**DESPITE ALL**

I - Don't!"

"Shh! Be still, boy. I am a healer, not an ex-lover." Rozial chuckled, and continued to massage the sick young man's bare neck and shoulders as he lay there, bleeding through her bandages all over her very own bed, though that was nothing new. She wondered what he meant by his words. Well, he was hurting, that was a given, beaten and bloodied as he was. He had lain there tense beneath her ministrations, which as any healer knew, would only give rise to either a slow recovery or a set-back. He jerked away from her, whimpering and squirming. Was she losing her touch in her dotage? She prayed not.

He had looked around first alarmed then reassured at the array of candles and crystals surrounding him, and had lifted his head long enough to look deep into her soul, his suddenly sharp hazel eyes begging for release from some distant torment. He seemed agitated, as he looked about him perhaps for some long-gone adversary. She finally managed to settle him with a few deft strokes along his temple. She suppressed the urge to ruffle his unruly dark hair. He was so like her Kimbel, that she could almost cry with the ache of her need for him, still raw after all these decades.

"T-Teyl-"

She didn't know what 'tuhtayl' meant. Perhaps that was a who? Rozial continued to stroke the young man's exposed skin to calm him, zigzagging, deftly avoiding his more serious injuries, wondering who he was, who had done this to him, and how he had ended up sprawled across her doorstep. With each gentle touch, Rozial felt a jolt throughout her entire being. She leapt up, stood back from him, stared down at him, and saw a man not a boy. A handsome man, like her Kimbel had been. Oh, what she wouldn't give to be young again.

_You are too old, Roz, _she reminded herself. _This boy is young enough to be your son_.

Still, she was taken back to her youth, to thoughts of her beloved Kimbel. Kimbel, who with his dying breath had promised to return to her someday. Kimbel, who had provided her with a child - though the baby was the spit and image of her and not him.

Wyowel was tall, fair and heavy-set. He had chosen blacksmithing as his trade, to no-one's surprise. Oh, how she had at once sobbed and rejoiced alone when her perfect, beautiful Wyowel was born. She had not cried since, and would never cry again, though in private, she sniffled once in a while.

Kimbel had been tall if not lanky, and dark and slim, like this one. No, she wasn't fool enough to think this was Kimbel finally come back to her. That was for folktales around the camp fire, and fond musings with an early morning cup of tea just as the sun rose with the promise of renewal, or dreams, whereupon she would jerk awake, and realize precisely who she was and whom she was with.

No-one.

On both counts.

No, not true. She was a healer with endless callers, and as such she would carry on healing until she dropped. In essence, she never lacked for company, though often they were not even conscious. She gazed upon her latest charge.

This young man needed her, and needed to be returned to his own kind. Wyowel was seeking them out even now. She worried for her son, who was no doubt even now dashing from one sheltering edifice, growth or outcrop to another, dodging those wicked Genii.

Regaining her youth was not an option. Wyowel and his woman, Jessal, were a constant reminder that she had long since moved up a generation, and was perhaps about to move up another one, since Jessal's belly was growing big. Rozial grinned.

She settled for reassuring pats on the back of the young man's arms, and cautious dabs at his lesser wounds, even as she remembered Kim. The sight of him, the musky smell of him, the feel of his muscles, his long legs, his strong hands, and tanned and slender fingers caressing her -

"Mom?"

She knew in an instant what that meant, and it yanked her out of her reverie. This was some mother's son, whether mom, mama or mim. She was Wyowel's mim. For the time being, she was this young man's mim. Right here and now, she was a mother not a lover. She would never be a lover again.

Once she had also been a daughter and a sister. And an aunt, but the wicked Genii had put paid to that in relentless attacks upon her people for possessing some useful mineral or other that they had coveted for their weapons program. Now, she was grandmother to allcomers. Clan mother. It generally sat well with her, but still, part of her wished to run wild and free. To sing at the top of her voice rather than hum, and make bimsychains to weave into her long, gray locks. Perhaps one day she would roam free, run barefoot, regain the streams, the hills, the dales. She wished she could feel less foolish at the prospect.

In the meantime, she studied the poor, battered young man, who moaned now. She had done all she could. She had tended Kimbel for the last time in the self-same manner. And yet -

As much as she wished he was her beloved returned to her, he was not. Rozial brushed back his sweat-soaked hair from his forehead, and kissed him, just on his hairline, long and lingering, and offered a small, silent eulogy to her long lost love.

"Mom…"

"Shh, boy. You're safe with me."

"Kolya?" His voice cracked.

Rozial hazarded a guess. "No, no… kol-yuh," she whispered in his ear. Another who, mayhaps. He cracked open an eye, sought and found her face, scanned her from head to toe for body language. She waved a hand dismissively, and smiled, whereupon he relaxed slightly. She had guessed right, then. He yearned for one and despised the other.

There was nothing else to do right now but wipe away the sweat of fever and cool him down. And muse as the fancy took her. Rozial would shortly visit Kimbel's burial site, say goodbye to him for the thousandth time, and as ever light candles for many an unmarked grave. She suppressed a tear.

Her musings had ripped her out of healing mode, for the young man cried out again, and flipped onto his back. Not good. Luckily, she had cleaned him up, applied salve and dressings, though they were already sodden and dripping.

Truth be told, she had never before dealt with this level of abuse. The young man arched his back, flailed his arms, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head, then - thankfully he succumbed to oblivion. Rozial eased him back over onto his belly, removed the soiled dressings, and frowned.

He bore scourge marks, old and new. It was little wonder the poor boy shied away from human contact. Who had done this to him? Clearly not his mim, since he called for her time and time again. His cries wrung her out.

"I p-promise! I won't ever d-do it again!"

The boy pushed himself upright, stared about him, then collapsed onto her bed once more, grimaced, and gripped the bedding so tightly, that she became concerned for not only his physical wellbeing, but his psyche. He flipped now onto his left side, drew his hands around his head, and his knees up to his chin. He couldn't be more fetal in aspect, and her only recourse at this stage of the boy's inner turmoil was to shroud his body in her lightweight sheet, feeling motherly rather than wifely for doing so, make more shushing sounds, and whisper yet more platitudes.

Rozial tucked him in around his poor abused back, his arms, his thighs, his calves, and saw him as a thing of beauty that she could only admire from afar. He was not Kimbel, and never would be, and she would not touch him that way, betray the small speck of hard-won trust in his fever-bright eyes. The boy - young man - was delirious. Rozial planted a hand onto his presenting cheek in an effort to ground him. There was, however, no-one left to ground her.

Kimbel…

"Dad! Please! I - "

Dad? Rozial had to wonder what iniquity he had committed. None whatsoever, most likely. She prided herself in being a good judge of character. And what did 'Dad' mean? Rozial thought long and hard. Oh, no… Surely not!

Kimbel's father had been a violent, inadequate little man. Her Kimbel had borne the marks of many a sound thrashing, and had tearfully vowed to never touch any child of his, unlike his brother, Narrel, who suggested that if it was good enough for him, it was good enough for his brats. Rozial missed out on being there for her nieces and nephews, since not one survived the last Wraith culling. One didn't even survive his own father. Who needed the Wraith to undo families, when there were men like Narrel around? She was interrupted from her musings by a whimper. She bent over the young man, and dared to touch his bare shoulder.

"Don't!" he cried, then, "Davey didn't do it!" he squealed, and he was kicking his legs, tugging at the pillow, lifting his head and appealing to thin air.

"It was me! I - " The young man was a writhing bundle of sheer misery.

What did he do? What did he do? Did it even matter? Surely, he was just a little boy! Just a boy… Just a boy… Rozial was exhausted. He broke a vase? Spilled milk? What? She slumped into a chair to watch him further, and struggled not to think of Kimbel, though she failed at that quite miserably. He was her Kimbel all over again, right down to the scars on his back, and the sickness that took him from her. She wanted Kimbel back, and if her ministrations were top notch because of that, then so be it. The young man would benefit from it. As Wyowel did. As they all did.

Wyowel.

She had never once struck him, and never would.

"It was an accident, Dad! She - " the young man screamed. If she could just clutch him now, draw him into her arms, hug him, but she wasn't sure how he would react.

"Mom! Nooo… " and the young man spun around, twisted over and over, a tangle of arms and legs in the bedsheet, and - he fell out of bed. Rozial reprimanded herself for not tucking him into the low cot in the guest room, but it would have been hard for her to bend down to tend him. Just then, Wyowel burst through the door, and she leapt up, hugged him, feeling grateful for his existence, grateful that he had never had to suffer the demise of a mother or the abuse of a father.

"Mim?" He hung back. "I found them. His people," he said quietly. "They know what happened to him, and the bulk of them are waiting outside until they know more."

A young woman rushed in, spied the young man on the floor, and gasped. She scanned the length of him, then crouched over him, and touched his forehead with her own.

"We came for you," the woman cried, her voice harried. Perhaps this was his Tuhtayl. Rozial lowered her gaze to give them a private moment.

"She f-fell! She was… reaching… Mom! "

"Your… mother? She fell? I did not know. I am so sorry, John!" She nestled in behind him, gathered him up under his shoulders, and held him close, though he fought her. As an afterthought, or maybe to keep him with her, she added, "What was it she reached for, John?"

John.

"Me! I mustn't let go! She said that! I was hanging from the damn chandelier! I mustn't! Let! Go! Mom! Don't let go! Aaagh! No!"

This wasn't Kimbel returned. This wasn't even Tuhtayl's man. This young man bore his burden alone. Rozial would not be interrupting a private moment then. The young man, John, lifted his head, and came out of his delirium. He hauled himself up with a wince, and gazed up at her and Tuhtayl through moist eyes.

"I - tried to fly. I was five. My mom, she - grabbed me, swung me a few times to pitch me back up and over the railing, but then she fell, " he explained. "My dad…" He faltered at that. "My brother, Dave, he - didn't… he - wasn't… It was all my - "

And then he fell silent, folding in on himself, mouth set stern, eyes hooded, head bowed, his body language indicating that he would never speak of this again.

Weeks later, a fully recovered John Sheppard visited Rozial, to thank her for - well, everything, apparently, though she didn't recall doing anything much beyond just being there, tending to him, guiding him through his fever, struggling to ground him until his people could be located. It was a shock to see him again. He was so like Kimbel. She responded with just a maternal pat on his arm, but still he flinched. He offered an apologetic, slightly lop-sided smile, and she nodded in return.

No explanation was necessary. He could not be comforted, not in this lifetime. He hoped that Tuhtayl or some other woman might heal those wounds, though she doubted it. Rozial had tended his physical ones, but there was most likely nothing more that could be done for him, this side of the Veil. Rozial resigned herself to that, knowing she had done what she could for him. She watched him leave through the Ancestral portal, then for the first time since Wyowel was born, picked bimsies to take home with her, and make herself a chain.

She was halfway through her bimsychain when Wyowel entered. She knew what was coming, but suppressed a knowing smile.

Wyowel parked himself next to her at the kitchen table, took her hand, and declared in a faltering voice, "Uhm, Jessal is pregnant, Mim. I'm going to be an apa… "

Rozial squeezed her eyes shut, and saw herself teaching a little one how to make chains, press flowers, select herbs - become a healer.

Rozial hugged her son, and in one fleeting moment, mourned for a lover, pined for a lifestyle lost, yearned for a grandchild, prayed for a son, and hoped for solace or even love for a young man not of her world, who had somehow learned how to fly, despite all.

oooOOOooo


End file.
